


The End of the World

by pipistrelle



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Apocalypse, End of the World, Established Relationship, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is always ending. That's the fun of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr challenge to write a ficlet based on "it's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine". Just some random fluff. Have a fun apocalypse, everybody!

They're in New Orleans on December 21, 2012, and outside their shitty hotel it sounds like Mardi Gras.

The world's best pair of killers are not joining in the fun; they're dutifully holed up in their drab little room one level below the roof, waiting for the extraction helicopter that's probably not coming -- not before midnight, anyway.

Clint's restless, and his restlessness is a fascinating thing, with long periods of stillness interrupted by twitches and jerks as his nerves briefly break through his self-control. Natasha sits on the edge of the bed and watches him as he sits, jumps up, paces, leans against the wall, paces again. She hasn't figured out yet what's bothering him, but she isn't worried. If he needs to tell her, he will, and if not, he won't. What more can she ask?

Still, she isn't expecting the outburst that actually comes. "This isn't happening! Everyone knows this isn't happening, right?"

"Evidently not," Natasha drawls, as the neon green clock radio on the nightstand marks off another minute towards midnight. The crowds outside let out a drunken roar.

"This is stupid," Clint grumbles, and finally sinks into a chair.Now it's his turn to watch her as she loads and polishes her favorite handgun and makes a careful inventory of her knives.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Getting ready for work," she says.

"We've done our work. The mission's over." He snorts in disbelief. "Wait, you don't think the world's ending, do you? That's bullshit, and you know it."

She carefully secures the last knife to the inside of her boot before she answers. "I don't think we're going to get destroyed because some 21st-century hack misread an artifact from a complex, powerful ancient civilization," she says thoughtfully. "But that's no guarantee we won't self-destruct."

She looks up at Clint and smiles. She's going for reassuring, but she's guessing from the lift of his eyebrows that she misses the mark. Not that she's surprised -- tension is curling around her stomach, up the muscles of her back, tightening her shoulders. The air of anticipation that fills the world outside has permeated into this room as well, but it's different here, sharper and more stinging. The thought that _something's going to happen_ prickles along the backs of her arms like the track of a spider's legs.

"Don't look so worried, Barton," she tells Clint. "It's not like it won't be something we haven't seen before."

"Pretty sure I'd remember the apocalypse," Clint grumbles.

Natasha starts to say _you remember Budapest, don't you_? because this feels exactly the way that felt, when she fell into Clint's arms after they stumbled away from the firefight, and this is how it felt in New York when the glint of blue fire drained out of Clint's eyes and left behind a sick, terrified desperation that had inspired her to wade into a war. And so long ago, lifetimes ago, in a deserted warehouse on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, the tingle of electricity that had been followed a fraction of a second later by an arrow out of the darkness, maybe intended to kill her but aimed just a little too high...

She doesn't say any of that, because Clint's scowl has faded into a smirk. He knows. Of course he knows. He's there with her, riding the edge of the catastrophe curve, always ending someone's world and maybe one of these nights the world that ends will be his, but not tonight.

Let the civilians see them as the valiant Avengers, the sword and SHIELD to hold back the aliens swarming out of the dark, but that's just a mask. What they really are is this -- together in a dingy little room, listening to the chaos outside, grinning as they get ready to dive in because the world is ending (isn't it always?), and they're in it for the thrill.

It's going to be fun.

The clock clicks over to 12:00 and a sudden hush falls over the crowded night. Then, as a full thirty seconds pass and nobody gets instantly obliterated, the silence shifts into a low grumble that rises into a roar of exultation, and that's when HYDRA's doomsday robots attack.

Clint is already up with his bow in hand and his quiver over one shoulder. One solid kick to the window frame and the pane swings out on two hinges. "I'll cover you," he says, motioning for Natasha to leap out first.

She grabs the top of the frame and pulls herself up, and then with her feet off the floor she twists and plants a kiss on Clint's cheek, something she hasn't done since Budapest.

"Told you," she murmurs, and he smiles and says "Fuck you," and then they're off to save the world.


End file.
